Friday, July 9, 2010

Coming to the Light

Coming to the Light

My mind playing tricks on my eyes
That golden glow bringing me into
worlds of pumpkin coaches,
Valkyrie in flight,
neverlands that never were,
yet so much more real than
what passes for day to day.

Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness,
truth succumbing to convenient lies.
Joy is opening all the senses into the
spectrum of beauty.
No moderation,
no limitation,
no convenient structural captivity.
Let the stars be shining beacons
calling us home.
Let the wind be a magical cloak,
the rain an exultation.
Let the cold, dark night be
a treasured, inspiring friend.

Let the night take me forward
Into everfulfilling fantasies
The never empty cup,
the magic wand/magic word,
sprinkled with faery dust,
toasted with the fine bubbles
of celluloid champagne.
Let us, the night and I, sneak off into
exotic adventure.
Let us learn the secrets of the Moon and Stars,
ancient runes and alchemical wonders.
Let us play upon the backs of dragons,
learning to fly,
learning to breathe fire,
learning to explore the mountainpeaks
and caverns of
our cthonic fears
and spin them into gold.

The new day dawning
it will encounter clouds and hailstorms,
turbulence and destruction.
It will be a day of startling showers and
unsettled wind,
of unreasoned pain
and empty solace.
It will be a day to try our souls.
But it will be a day of infinite possibilities.

Let my good friend, the night,
join me in play
to help prepare me for the day.
Let the earth and fire and rain and wind
infuse my spirit
that we all be fellow friends
in the new ventures
coming with the light.

Chironic Vision

Chironic Vision

Part I

The future descends

from the fear-embroidered skies

the vision is of holocaust --
when everybody dies

A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm?

We have a chance to make our mark

but is it right or wrong?

The military marches

The anti-warriors too

We take our stand in battle

The many and the few

Spinning tales of magic, of wizardry and fate

We want to know just how it ends before it's all too late

We sing our song too late

We right our wrongs too late

We want to know the date

To find a better fate

Can I tell you?

Can I help you to know or understand?

Can I utter the words that will make you see me?

Standing here before you, I want to take your hand

to be swirled up into a magical dancing

to be taken to worlds of beauty entrancing

to give you the will and the wonder to set you free.

Can you see me?

Plutonic Verse

As long as it matters that I exist

As long as I've something to go back to

As long as there is a community of which I am an integral part

The rest is just details

And though "the devil is in the details"

So are the gods.

One Hand Clapping

Is a reflection in a glass,

like moonlight,

half empty or half full

or, like moonlight
filled with the stuff of dreams?

What is the sound of moonlight

dripping onto the earth

down a silver stair?

What is the demand of dreamlight?

Emotion spilling onto sand or clay,

roaring like soundwaves?

Light coalescing into sound into waves into sea?

What is the demand of sky
of sea
of fire

dripping through the twilight?


half moonlight, half mind.


Weave into the fabric of a tribe of artistic dancers.

Fall under the spell of pure magic.

Silent night, peace and cold

Imbue me with music

In ecstasy, I dance to the stars.

Bad Seed

Bad Seed

Guilt as a constant drip of toxin

a constant flow of tears

a constant beat of blood

pounding behind my eyes

exhorting me to arise

to rise to the occasion

to fall upon my knees in shame

begging for any scrap to salve

that gnawing, angry pain

a constant burning drip

a ring of fire -- pass not beyond this point

for life is not a journey

but a downward spiral.

What could such an open, curious, loving child have done

to merit such punishment?

Andromeda Unbound

Andromeda Unbound

Primal emergent scene of fear/betrayal/rage
Against prosaic life tuned to a simpler age
A woman and a man and progeny of course
A life tailored to plan, no stranger to remorse

So early in the days of what might hence occur
The learning of the ways of how to be are stirred
So legends have been cast, so myths in mist abound
As some realities are buried underground.

It was a cold and gilded house, camouflaged as home
It was a brutal game of chance camouflaged as life
Chain me to my jagged rock and let me bleed
Let the ravage start, I will not plead,
My tears will only flow when primed by raging seas

They say that life's a school, we must learn or die
They knock into us what, where, when, forgetting why
Each put into our place and left to wait our turn
It's not about what we may be, but what we earn.

Tree-lined sidewalks, car-lined streets, children at play
It seems so calm and peaceful, keeping fear at bay
Do the laundry, buy the groceries, pay the heating bills
Get it done, don't delay, no matter who it kills.

It was a curse hurled from the gods, but it wasn't mine
Punishment for a crime of pride I did not commit
Clinging to my prison door, I hide my eyes
Expecting no pardon from the skies
No where left to go to hide from my mind's lies

What can't be told infects a deep and deadly path
Buried wounds untended surface into storms of wrath
A beaten creature huddles beneath a snarling face
Dying for a welcome smile, the warmth of caring grace

Some doors left open lead to mystic hidden rooms
Of purple velvet drapes, plush carpets and rare perfumes
The tapestry of life upon an ancient wall
Or was it down a rabbit-hole you meant to fall?

I begged a chance to be saved, but it was not my time
The monster's howl a hungry hound denying rest
Lost in a tempest, finding none to care
Petrified by my own inward icy stare
Bound and cursed by the gods, of what use is prayer?

Comes the time in spiraling life of do or die
Take the time to breathe the air, read visions from the sky
Willing change, allowing pain to tell its sorry tale
Rearrange the picture's frame, learn to adjust the scale

The rules laid down to keep us bound were never friends
A hero's quest with divine intent can open stories' ends
Gods inspire nature's desire for beauty, healing, choice
Reclaiming heart, we do our part, obeying our true voice

Opening my eyes, raising my voice, I claim my power
The gods respond not with violence but with joy
Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone
Free at last my spirit soars as I
dance by day through sweet Olympian fields -- by night among the stars



Some Sunday Evening
When the sky is still half blue
And Spring is oh so present in the scented breeze,
The mind may take pause from the conventions
of the weekday world,
Take pause from its frenzied hiding,
Peek from behind the metal barricade of
"No, no. No time for that now."
And dream the impossible, unforgettable dream
That brings man above the machines, into humanity;
Above the burdened beasts -- into gods.
Then, tell me your dream, and I'll tell you mine
(Quickly now, before they're jackrabbit scared beyond recall -- such
fragile things are dreams).
It starts on a pure-white, fine-grained beach,
silhouetting a wide blue,
eternal, crystal sea.
A blazing blue and yellow sun-rayed sky overhead,
and sparkling sea shells beneath your feet.
And the sea breeze and lapping waves make the only
sounds (noisy traffic, heated pavement, not
even a memory. It was really such a bad joke.)
There's a girl: long silken hair of sunlight,
long supple limbs of grace.
And a boy
Both clear-eyed, strong-lunged and alive.
See them play.
Air, Earth, Fire, Water
Then transformed above the clouds
In the knowledge of universes
"Here we are to meet our makers"
-- among them ourselves.
Roll call of the gods and goddesses
up for reassignment or rest and recuperation
among the stars.
I dreamed I was on Earth and saw a thing called war
(shudders) -- a psychic trauma
to be overcome.
So let us play in our past
and watch the field unfold
Tanks and Generals and Implements of Destruction
"Why, they're only paper cards."
Pawn to Queen Bishop Three
And check; and mate.
Such silly games we find to play.
I'd rather make love to you.
That's what boys and girls are for.
Slippery union by the seashore
And close your eyes as we make love
amongst the galaxies.
Let me feel you; let me be you.
Your skin merging with mine
So soft and warm,
ah, sensation . . .
floating higher and higher
and higher -- beyond all time or dimension
You know, it's all one --
The rest is a game
A cosmic joke.
"Hear the gods laugh"
You laugh -- delightful.
And now we rest on the beach
under the bright, warm sun
floating through black eternity
amongst the pinbright stars
4th of July sparklers
or Christmas tree lights
Softly floating down and down and
The holiday is over.
As Sunday night turns to Monday morning and
we don our masks and securely hide our dreams,
til its as if they were never seen,
tightly behind their barricades
and a muffled "mornin'"
is all we'll allow in greeting,
eyes shielded, limbs confined,
back into our workaday existence,
reading the war news
fighting our own private wars with the
infernal traffic.
The dense fog descends to hide the sky and sun.
The water's polluted,
The sidewalks encrusted in broken glass.
And, I'd tell you my dream, if you'd tell me yours,
But --
"Don't be ridiculous,
We haven't time for dreams."



A joyous encounter with life
A joyous encounter called my life
I've swung from trees in tropical times
And swum the seas of paradise
And learned to breathe upon the earth
You've got to see me; you've got to listen
To these wonders that I've learned

Traveling, traveling a hard-stoned road
Working my legs, my mind, carrying my load
Journeying for countless years
Seeking out the sea of tears
Eyes blinded by a black lace veil
I break my trail
(As in my mind my thoughts unwind my tale)

A marvelous secret, a hidden treasure trove
While unicorns play harpsichord
Within a blossomed grove
A newborn child with something wild that
plays in rainbowed eyes
Has been declared of druid laird
born to hypnotize
Been borne to hypnotize
Sing lullabies
Reward all the heathen with sleep
And dreaming dreams as such who waken
Find their very core earthshaken
And made to believe in possibilities
They set their sites, reshaping all reality
And of them they've begotten me.

Sound the magic pipes of Pan
All who hear may understand
The fluid waif who walks the land
Spawn of Diana's fling
With the clove-foot forest king

Vibrate to music, music, music
In every cell of living fluid
'Tis alright to be a druid
Of forest borne to roam through future lands
Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me
Become my hands.

Floating, wandering, restless dreams
Call me to respond.

I rode a mountain faire
Picked daisies for my hair
Learned to know the name of every weed
I dwelt the night alone
In a crevice made of stone
And never thought of what I next would need
I dreamt of castles bold
And the language of the Olde
And struggled to bring my dreams alive
And whistled as I rode
The songs I'd oft been told
At parties seen
In waking dream
Another place and time
Another tune, another rhyme
And I'd sit beside my campfire
And gaze into the flames
And yearn of learning other places,
Atune to other names
Traveling over other lands,
Seeking secrets, other plans
Or just remembering another song
For the secret of each soul is in its song.

Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Twisting twig upon an aery sea.
Luminescent way
Whatcha gonna say
Songbird, whistle your wisdom to me.

A maid of golden wings
In lullabying sings
Of white sails racing in the wind.
No two are e're the same
Of the tales she can name
Oh, nightingale -- take me in!
Blazing all around
Miles from bare ground
Journeying upon a vessel rare
Silently I sing
To hold remembering
Magic castles in the air.

Getch yer gimme
Pull that file! Collapse that case!
You are obsolete -- unexistent
And ain't no one gonna hire you in this industry.
Whatcha holding on to?
Whatcha going on to?
Whatcha gonna live for?
Got a score to settle while the dying's cheap
Gonna find a rooftop and fire.
Gonna tap a neural gap and get higher.
Gonna hold a seance and retire.
Become a log a'rotting in the wood
Enter eternity a nonfunctioning robot
Captured in celluloid, electronic impulses
Air tremors and interruptions in space.
We make no difference to a meteor --
Any blind force that destroys without design --
We make no difference to our own kind.
Blind orgiastic miasma
Pressing, moaning, sucking in life.

Images of innocence float by in my mind
I'm looking for a pot of gold
I never hope to find
And wonder in the dark of night
What if I should go blind.
Today is made of yesterdays,
Tonight of yestereves.
The spoken words I say to you
I hope you won't believe.
We've but so little time my friend,
Too little time to grieve.
And I wonder in my heart of hearts
Just where all will lead.
Will I once more take an oath of pain
And watch my body bleed
Or will I learn that living's
When you take all that you need?

Busy work, busy talk, trying to make time
Talk of energy, talk of war,
Talk of who you're out to score
Learn to love and disremember
Trying to make time; dying to make time.
Try to run and they've got you busted.
Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide.
Everyone's there to be mistrusted.
Try to hide, try to hide, try to hide.
What's left of you inside?

You are of me.
You are one of me.
You see what I see.
You do what I see.
You do what I command.
I've got you in my hand.
I've got you underhand.
Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.
You are far away.
You are very far away.
You don't do what I say.
You don't hear what I say.
I'm screaming "go away"
Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away.

I'm sitting in my room.
I've got you in my room.
I see you in my womb.
You got away too soon.
You haven't got a chance.
No, not a bloody chance.
I circle in my dance.
I've got you in my dance.
In a trance, in a trance, in a trance, in a trance
Come on -- DANCE!
Touch me. Touch me. Touch me. Touch me.

Quietly, quickly, without a trace
Annihilate an entire race
Stealthily, silently my poison kills
To cleanse this land of a people's ills.
The key's been cast, so lock the door
On lies and poverty; greed and war.
Purify in red hot fire
Deify the symbol of desire
And when all desire's turned to dust
Etch in fire: "IN GOD WE TRUST."
A sacred trust.

Sound the bell
Sound the bell
Sound the bell slowly
O'er all we've made holy.
Ring bright pure-toned peals
O'er gold flaming fields
In music now seal'd
The end of our fate.
Sound the bell.
Sound the bell.

And now I sail from the sea of Lethe
A phoenix, risen from my death
To journey on through time and space
Progenitor to the human race.

Blue Moon

Blue Moon

The moon is blue and dreaming
Cry all my children to sleep
In conquest dreams we deem to rule
In darkest halls we plot in torment
In empty caverns we deify glory
Dance, again, dance for freedom
Dance my children to sober dreaming
Of valor and honor and color and pain
Dance and cry and strive again
To hold a mass and state the Name
Call forth my demons from sleep
The songs of old and runes of yore
The empty words we've learned to score
The high and low and even
Listen and you'll hear them moan
It's dark and dirty here below
The emptiness can drive you
To a place you ought not go
You'll die in horror screaming
Cry all my children to sleep
The moon is blue and so are you
You'll hear its song so clearly
And discount it all to dreams
And when you wake, you'll wonder
Why you're screaming
Why you ache in places you can't feel
Why your work and world don't seem so real
Why the voices in your head are screaming
And you'll count the phases of the moon
And wander in the night without direction
And keep a silent vigil in your secret heart
And turn quickly round the corners,
Lest someone see you
And when the curse is cast, you'll hear it spoken
Without bothering to look for the absent speaker
And when the moon has turned its face
To other dreamers
You'll see a vision overpower the sky
And answer . . . when you ask it "why?"
The moon is blue and dreaming.

Mushroom teacups sail in stardust
withered laurels snap in dustwhirls
tethered horsemen roam the skyways
soldiered remnants hiss through brushwoods
All is soon made clear.



Enfolding mother walls
Defining my space
Allowing the creative freedom of security
Hugging me to me,
my pictures which I hung
on your warm wooden surface
when first I claimed
this room my womb.

"We're building walls between us.
Walls between us!" You said, you shouted,
"All those words, words, words,
words of analysis and placing blame.
Why don't you just touch me, hold me,
let me get back in touch with you?"
But I couldn't reach you through
the walls of silence.



Let us contradict the hours
And walk awhile amidst the flowered garden of
Times so bittersweet and true
Their precious etchings scarring as they grew
into your essence.
Breathe deep. Look inside your soul
For pack rat hidden magic tones of
carefree, joyous laughter
To salve old wounds with tender care.
Awakening, a new self-awareness emerges after.
Yes, let your inner chorus sing:
We are the source of anything
we wish to make our mission.
The key is to relax and dream,
Floating down a buoyant stream
we're learning to envision.
Through weary hours of bitter nights
It helps if we can fix our sight
upon the rays of morning.
Time is not the enemy,
But more a growing friendship
we are tentatively forming.

Rainbow Shop

Rainbow Shop

And she sold me rainbows
dancing gaily 'cross the window
windchimes in light.
And she smiled me daisies
and bursting bright blooms of summer.
And she told me, maybe,
if you're looking in
the right direction,
a miracle may grace your sight.
And I smiled
into the day.

Simple Things

Simple Things

"We need to believe in simple things."
She said with a curtsy and a smile
And with that proceeded to
change her shoes and dance.
The wind and the waves seemed to chant
in flute and fiddle and drum
played by the white-robed ones behind her
As she danced out a story of love and remembrance
and, yes, simple things.
So a vision was made to appear
before the hypnotized crowd.
The clock struck backwards and forwards
through seasons and ages
Not of Czars and Wars and Events or Inventions
But leaves falling, snow drifting, folk singing,
birds calling, children laughing, bread cooling.
And soon the crowd became a joyous dancing throng
of beaming folk,
each remembering special moments,
breaths of air on dew-dropped dawns of spring,
or the warmth of a loved one's hand,
or a birdsong.
And she spoke once more before dissolving
into the mist in a warm sparkling glow:
"Believe not in salvation nor sin nor in reward --
we must live as we can,
and believe in simple things."

A Very Hindu Song

A Very Hindu Song

Insanity reigns supreme.
Madness is loose in the world.
And sing and dance and shout and scream
And learn to take a chance on a dream
And laugh and cry all when and why
lose meaning
pure being
no regret.
Do you know what it would say
When all our egos slip away
To come the time of one last day -- eternity.
How it is is not to say
or all our knowledge slips away
of what we are and what we stay
Common fellows dressed as cows,
and misses dressed as felines
return to stage to take their bows
it doesn't matter anyhow
-- we're Brahma in our free time.
Madness is loose in the world;
Insanity reigns supreme!
It's only what you feel in a dream.



far away, windy beaches call to me
their icy freshness calling me
come away
to where the air is clean and waters' deep
come and sleep
we'll melt your cares away
come away.
far away, mountain peaks they call to me
forest greens and far to see
misty freshness calling me
come away.
fortune despises the man who has eyes for
the lower side.
fellowship's handy, but what can a dandy do
when all's behind him
wait and see; look to me.
the writing on the wall's made clear;
it's only us that we need fear.
it's only empty dirty lies
to tell us to ourselves despise.
wait and see; look to me.
and i'll tell you
the words you've been waiting to hear
the words you would cherish most dear
for it's all clear as a mirror, as safe as a dream
i scream and scream and scream and scream
and like just any day
they're running away
far, far away
while here i stay -- crying.
then, all at once in a nightmare
in the midst of a schized-out day
i hear you say
i almost hear you say
but you're too far away
so i run to catch up
and i run like the wind
and i am the wind
and i blow away . . .

Many Voices, Part II

Many Voices, Part II

May we attend the funeral please,
for our sweet sister
Nibble a bit upon her vacant flesh.
The foxes, the dear little foxes.
Mais oui, mais oui, the funeral, please,
for our sweet sister
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her tender flesh.
Her day is over.
He's digging a hole in the ground for me.
He's digging a hole in the ground for me
And singing a song of sweet "I love you's"
All the while he digs.
(minimizing his own discomfort)
Mais oui, nibble a bit
upon her vacant flesh.


The crowd dissolves
and I am left in a sad corner
holding a wrinkled overcoat
Wishing for warm holiday homecoming goodwill.
But the endless night enwraps my mind
leaving me twisted
jumping here and there without purpose.
Johnny didn't have a penny,
but he had good looks and good times
& Mary had her pimp's abortion to even the score
But no one took the beggar seriously
when he said that times had turned to emptiness.
No one believed in fulfillment;
no one had the time.
& the crowd dissolved
vanished into the fog
tho ectoplasmic energies milled about the mainfare.
It was Thursday in the rain and mist
and sooted brownstones.
And the streetlamps only served as muted halos
like the cafe neon flashing
So I stopped in for another beer and borrowed music
& listened to the couple in the next booth
discuss their barren lives
& thought of 19th century philosophers
who make me sad
& wished for a breezy bright beach in May
& wrote you another letter
to be locked in my diary.
So I'm thinking of splitting for the coast
or maybe Cincinnati
But my overdraft is overdrawn
and I'm not strong enough to hitchhike
and maybe tomorrow just won't happen
if I can find the right door to oblivion.
But maybe tomorrow will dawn bright and warm
and smiling
and the labor pool will call me
and the coffee buns will be sweet at breaktime
and someone will smile at me
and come to my barstool
to shoot the breeze and share my dreaming
And the crowd will dissolve
And the people will emerge.



It's a tale many times in the telling
Of wisdom and wonder and enchantment foretold.
Captivating, yes compelling.
But catch it now, before you're old (We're so soon old.).
Cross country wide and free; a gypsy's life by caravan
And what is yet to be is stretching wide, without a plan.
Try, if you can, to imagine just how you're gonna end.
. . . You're gonna end.
Past ships and planes and miles of dusty road,
It's all been told . . .and then retold.
We've lived a thousand lives before, we the vagabonds of Earth
But let me try to tell to you my story, it's all I own
Whatever be its worth.
It started in a coffeehouse so many years ago
Where poets of our century were wont to waste their days
And in those days did bright mindwaves cast their nets and flow
To catch up young unruly souls and charge them with the craze
For adventuring -- for "something new"
To catch a star and follow wherever it should lead
To search out the holy answer to the ache of human need
To be the first new holy breed to wholey shake the Earth
To usher in a promised age, so many years in birth.
It was a time of carousels and colored lights;
A time of feeling grandly strong and right;
A time when Life was just beyond our sight.
What made it go? Which corner was the wrong one turned?
Or is it merely time to take things slow,
To gather up the threads of what we've learned?
The darkness cast upon us, how was it earned?
Oh yes, I meant to tell you of brilliant desert skies
And city street romances that sparkled ere they died.
Of Denver's summer snowstorm and LA's winter flood
And secret, solemn friendship pacts seal'd in summer blood.
Of a much awaited sunrise within a foreign town
Of food and flowers and incense freely passed around
Of turquoise rings & violent springs & jails of many brands
And music wafting through the streets
Of gentle smell of smoke so sweet
And wondrous madmen once to meet who read witchcraft in your hand.
And so much more; yes, lifetimes more.
I would give it all to you, asking nothing in return
But that you seek, in your own style, for yourself to learn
Of corners waiting yet to turn before our time is through.
And perhaps one day you'll say to me:
"Yes, the answer's here! Yes, the answer's clear!"
And you will say to all of us: "Here's what we must do."
Before our time is through . . .

Joint sessions

Joint sessions
In a hovel-hole basement building.
We keep the faith and
And it was told . . .
How the everlasting presence
still isn't very old.
How the Diamond got her ring
How the matchgirl got her king
How we all got everything
And how everything got sold.
Reeds bending in the wind
A haunting sentimental song
Dreams drifting by
The neon letters "LOVE" lit up in the air
A poem in pictures and sound.
Rather like a dream, you know
Those dawning tendrils
Sneaking through my windowshade
But it's much too early to be waking
So I'll dream on of morning romance
Without remembering
That I've no one to wake to
beyond the dawn.
Reaching to the stars,
Tarry in eternity:
This is all.
Soldiers marching in a desert
Remember not their daily cares
Remember only endless marching
Caught in dreaming unawares.
The crackling fire
The sweet cascading smoke
Light another match and start anew
As pinwheels and starbursts float
Through the silent night
And visions of "I love you" gently
Drift through the liquid air.
February snowflakes
Flitter Flutter
Feathery powder
Melt into my mind.

And Why Not Now?

And Why Not Now?

The 4th dimension that subsumes the 3
-- length, width, depth.
We move as we will in space,
Yet we move always in time
Whether we want or even know it
Ever onward through eternity;
Moment to moment
Encompassing all of our lives.

And yet they say there is no time, only now.

Every precious moment, every interminable hour, every slippery slovenly unrelivable day
an unrelenting onward and inward and outward soulesque surrounding eternity.

Where is now? Yes, everywhere, of course, but how do we divine the intention,
manifest the intention
give birth to form and substance
give meaning to the here and now that expands into times unknown?

How do we have meaning that stands true and real
that stands the test of time
that expands outward, strands playing in the breeze entangling and evolving?

How do we tame Now and make a dance of time, swinging and swaying
executing formal twirls of shadow and light to uplifted applause?

How do we account for time, yet spend it like raindrops, yet live in eternal awakening?

If it must be done, it must be done now!
There is no waiting room in eternity.
Yet there is no being done.
There is only doing, and being, and bravely swimming uncharted seas. We Are Interconnected

We are interconnected:
A widening web of information
Taking in knowledge of all sizes
(for though one size can not fit all
All can find the size they relate to).
We are diversity writ so large,
Encompassing all into one,
So that each thread upon the web,
That spreading neural network,
Is a conduit to and from
An expanding universe
Of interconnected ideas.

Swimming in an amniotic ocean.
Breathing the essence of eternity.
Finding our way, day by day, week by week,
Era by era.
Entranced in entrainment to a hypnotic beat,
Now and then to break into awakening,
To find that time and place and language
Have morphed again,
Into another image of the dream.

The Lay of the Land

The Lay of the Land

From your smoke-coughing cities
to your desolate plains
The children of Midas have taken the reins
And left you besoiled in blood-splattered stains
With none fit to wash you to purity.

The air-waved cacophony pleads for a song
That will once more unite you ennobled and strong
To take back the glory to which you belong
To wrench freedom from dreams of security.

The old man, he wanders through librium clouds
The young take their distance
to move through the crowds
And every one fitted for life-draining shrouds
Reflect only on death's dance of conformity.

While poisoning rays permeate land and air
The high class step out like they haven't a care
They're bound to discover their world-rending tear
But can they comprehend the enormity?

Ridiculous sages exhort peace and love
Say we each have our choice of reality
So we fight over contexts and deny what we can;
But reality marches on.

Journeyman upon the road
Listening to the jungle drums
learns to bring it all together
as nightly his guitar he strums.
From the Woodstock Nation on to '84
With his banner of music he learns to keep score
And the score, as it's written, keeps costing him more
But it's also what's keeping him dancing.
With a beat in his heart and a song for his soul,
it keeps him journeying on.

Winter creeps whitely over streetlamp and spire.
Muted to whispers the Grand Freedom Choir.
A clattering chatter overtakes the high wire
Pure white like the night of beginnings.

The children have nestled all snug in their schools
In joyous rote marching, they take in the rules
Determined to never be taken for fools
Or give back an inch of their winnings.

Silent, the singers are searching for voice
They know in their souls it's a matter of choice
They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoyce,
A newly turned path to felicity.

A new day is dawning, but where is the sun?
Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun.
The symbol of power overrules everyone
'Til we create our own electricity.

But under cover of darkness a banner's being stitched
Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance
To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze
As we march to freedom's song.

High upon a sacred mount,
Hearing now soft strands of sound
Journeyman no more, but questor
Nods benignly; ear to ground.
He's learned his song clearly, and clearly he sings.
Hearing an echo, he knows what it brings.
The time is approaching to fasten his wings
and swoop down to join the festivities.
A new day is dawning, and he is the son
And it's time to rejoyce in the dawn.

But where are the marchers, the pipes and the drums?
Back in the schoolrooms, relearning their sums;
Or sleeping with vermin, despised in their slums
Unable to speak more than mumblings.

From time to time daylight enbrightens their souls
But most of their time's spent enslaved to the doles.
The wonder is not the dearth of their goals
But that they've not given up on their stumblings.

The class struggle's nothing compared to the fight
'Tween having it all and doing it right
'cause whether you're black, brown,
red, yellow, or white
You're hooked on the sweet rush of buying.

But the dollar's declining; and so is the yen.
From swords we'll build plowshares and take up the pen
For here is the where, and now is the when
And the choice is 'tween living and dying.

Is winter receding? Is spring on the rise?
Do we hear on the air a new melody?
Do we strive to accept; do we try to deny?
Or awaken our voices to song?

Having witnessed, having spoken
Having reached the cusp of change
Standing midst the still unbroken
Deploying troops throughout the range
A new age martyr need not die
But only stand beneath the sky
And sing each soldier's battle cry
To emanate strength and courage
To keep them true upon the course
-- An emissary of the dawn!

We shout our faith clearly, without fear or shame
We've learned to play music -- and not play the game.
We've let loose our captors and broadcast their name
That they be captured and cleansed back to purity.

It's a tried and true story we chant here anew
Of a born again many set alight by a few
Remember the Beatles, the Stones, Dead and Who
Back when freedom meant more than security.

We're learning to share in an effort of gain
To harness the sunshine and bring back the rain
To take off our blinders and learn to be sane
Yet maintain self within that conformity.

Each singing in glory, permeating the air
Feeling good to be cared for, and better to care
As we mix up the glue and mend the great tear
Finding courage to face the enormity.

We don't need the sages to find peace and love
We don't need to fight against reality.
We need to learn rhythm and reason and rhyme
And raise our souls with song.

Knowing now his goal completed
Having given all he'd learned
On his private mountain seated
Enraptured in the peace he's earned
He sings his song clearly, with joy and with fire
It's all that he has and fulfills all desire
It's getting him high, and then bringing him higher
And setting his spirit to dancing.
With a beat in his heart
And a song for a soul
Wafting aloft . . .
And he's gone.

Sea Change

Sea Change
(Uranus/Neptune 1993)

All the bridges crumbling,
we are falling to the sea.
-- Tumultuously ripped & rocked
beyond all sound foundation.
Tossed adrift, lost and lonely
Crying out in fear and pain
To what gods may be, if only
what we've lost might be again . . .
And the sea erodes our souls
as the waves have rocked our faith
No more when we could be secure,
firmly anchored to the past.
This is what it is, to undergo a sea change.
This is what it is to dream a new awakening.
This is what it is when what has been forsakes us.
This is what it is
when what's to be must start to form.

My Heart Doesn't Bleed (for you)

My Heart Doesn't Bleed (for you)

Life is perverse
God is a cad
Here we're working so hard to be happy
It's really so sad
My heart doesn't bleed
My heart doesn't bleed for you.

You're down in the dumpsters searching for food
Cause you spend every nickel to alter your mood
As the nights go by flying into days without end
You know you'd get better if you could just find a friend
My heart doesn't bleed
My heart doesn't bleed for you.

The news isn't good, but it's certainly hot
Cause we love it when someone gets put on the spot
We're all politicians; we all play that game
Running and jumping into passing the blame
My heart doesn't bleed
My heart doesn't bleed for you.

What you've got going's so desperate and sad
You couldn't be good, but you're no good at bad
And you haven't the sense to come in from the rain
Cause just going numb's so much better than pain
My heart doesn't bleed
My heart doesn't bleed for you.

You're lost in the alley with the rats and the fleas
Don't matter no more once you've caught that disease
You know in your soul that there's no one to care
But what you're not sure of is how you got there
My heart doesn't bleed
My heart doesn't bleed for you.

A Kodak Moment

A Kodak Moment

Picture you in a fairy-tale moment
Picture me as I was always meant to be
Picture us rolling through green meadows
Picture everybody happy.

In my life of quiet desperation
I still try to find the time to dream
Look at us, we're quite a combination
Wonder if we'll be happy.

Picture love as quiet desperation
Picture life as where we have to be
Picture time away from aggravation
Picture everybody happy.

Picture you in a fairy-tale moment
Picture me as I was always meant to be
Picture us rolling through green meadows
Picture everybody happy.

Three Penny Opera and Grateful Dead:

Three Penny Opera and Grateful Dead:
What They Mean to Me

I was listening,
under a shadetree on a summer evening,
To the morals of our time as displayed
in popular music
And thinking of the many tiny travesties
of personal moments all around me.
The seatide ebbing/flowing of the music
more than hypnotized
as I watched people flowing
through an inner newsreel
of pride and misery
People marching in various uniforms
To a beat of pride and progress in the marketplace
and war zones;
People marching or being trampled or
sniping from the rooftops
All in rhythm.
And a friend said to me
on a starlit evening,
"It's so hard to know anymore what to do."

Dumpster Baby Blues

Dumpster Baby Blues

Really, I had never thought about it at all until after I found the baby in the dumpster.
I was on my way back home kind of late at night, humming "My Heart Doesn't Bleed (for you)," and mulling over various business possibilities as my cash flow was getting to be dangerously low. The hottest prospect was in distribution of nicohol, a beverage made from fermented tobacco with all the addictive and psychoactive properties of both alcohol and nicotine. Not paying much attention to my surroundings, but I started to notice what sounded like a cat crying in the low-rent apartment complex dumpster I was passing. I was in no great hurry to get back to my empty apartment (really just an unfinished basement in the warehouse district with jury-rigged bathroom and kitchen equipment I was renting cheap and with no questions asked), so I went over to the dumpster to check it out. No cat, but what appeared to be a moderately healthy newborn human was crying atop the trash in the dumpster.
There was no one around but me and the kid, so I scooped her up and took her home with me. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I don't know much about kids, but a smelly, vermin infested dumpster did not seem like a very good environment to leave her in. However, this act of good will now left me with several new problems. I mean, what was I going to do with this kid? I wasn't even doing very well in supporting myself. And it became evident right away that I would now need supplies of the diaper and baby formula (and bottles, too, I guessed) variety.
Well, I left the kid in a box in my basement and went to the all night convenience store to pick up supplies for both of us -- beer and chips for me. I realized that I would probably have to invest a hefty percentage of my dwindling resources if I intended to hold on to the kid for any length of time. This is what got me thinking. I mean, when one makes an investment, one expects some kind of return. There must be some way I could turn this liability into a profit. I let the problem settle into my subconscious (where I do my best thinking) while I diapered and fed the kid, consumed my snack, and got to bed.
The next morning I was awakened long before I was ready to the kid crying again -- who knows for how long before I was willing to concede it was not part of my dream. I changed and fed her and left her sleeping in the box while I went out to the local library to check out childcare information on the World Wide Web.
So there I am web-surfing away when my eye catches reference to a newsgroup, alt.pedophile. Well, something clicks in my good old subconscious, and I get one of those "aha" feelings, which always feels so good. So I click on to alt.pedophile and start browsing through the posts. I have found my market. Now I need to arrange for the necessary advertising -- a very delicate operation as I am aware that my proposed business venture is not in any way legal. Then again, most of my business ventures have not been overly concerned with staying within the law. I find my profit margin to be better that way. Besides, I'm the kind of a guy who likes my independence; and I'm wedded to my privacy. On my side of the law I make my own rules; and I report to nobody. So I have to find a way to advertise to my proposed client-base while maintaining my low-profile.
But then, I start thinking in earnest. Before I contact said clients, I should first have a pretty good idea of just what I am offering. Some of the posts have indicated a liking for activities which would not allow for more than a one-time use of my resource, which is not the kind of business I am looking for. However, there are certainly other activities described which would not overly harm the merchandise. And what about price? I don't want to price myself out of the market; but neither do I want to short-change myself. I am taking a considerable risk here; and that should entitle me to a good bit of profit per transaction. So it looks like I've got some planning and research to do before I can actually open for business. I mean, nothing ventured, nothing gained; but it makes sense to cover the angles.
From the information I've also gotten from the web on the care and feeding of human infants, I realize it must be time to get back to homebase and do some maintenance. I stop on the way to pick up supplies so I can bathe, dress and provide bedding for the kid along with more food and diapers. Once I've taken care of maintenance chores for both of us, I head back out to track down some former business acquaintances who may be able to help with my advertising campaign.
Well, as per usual, nothing goes smooth -- but it goes. A couple of weeks later I find myself with a going concern. To avoid invasions into my privacy, I've hit on the idea of renting cheap motel rooms in the no questions asked district, exchanging the key for my price in unmarked cash and then staking out the room from the parking lot to make sure no one tries to leave with the kid. I ask the clients to leave the key under the mat when they're done -- privacy all the way around. But I make sure they know I'll be watching them leave from an undisclosed spot and that we are all clear on the rules in terms of the condition I expect to find the kid in when they've left. So far it seems to be working out just fine. In fact, after a while, it all seems to be working out too well. Between repeat and word-of-mouth clientele, I'm getting swamped with business -- even after raising my price a couple of times. Apparently I have hit on a badly needed service.
It's time to expand. And it occurs to me that my kid in the trash was probably not a one-time fluke. So I start checking out dumpsters late at night, expanding my field of inquiry into various parts of the city. And, wouldn't you know, it pays off.
Hey, the way I figure it, I'm providing several public services all the way around. These kids had nobody and nothing; in fact, they would probably be dead and unmourned if I hadn't happened to find and rescue them, and given them a shot at a productive life. I am now
becoming an experienced child care giver; and with the bucks they're bringing in we're all able to afford the good life. The gig is easy -- they just lie there like they do anyway and let the big guys have their fun. Life is good.
I once had a girlfriend, a beautiful, smart, funny, crazy lady who was my life. Unfortunately, she was having a hard enough time being her own life, and didn't really need me along for the ride. It was a bad scene all around, and I haven't even heard of her in years. Sometimes I remember and am sad. But I really haven't got much to put into a relationship -- and mostly I like it that way.
Time passes and I pretty much stay the same. But babies do not. They grow. They gain competence in all kinds of motor skills and do not docilely stay in their boxes, or even (as we grow more upscale in our wealth) cribs. They demand more and more attention and potentially find more and more trouble to get into. Who am I to judge? But I am a low maintenance kind of guy and not into complications. Now I have a problem. These kids are great little money-makers, but with all this dough I want to buy into more of a life. I do not want to devote my time to raising kids. And I can see a whole lot more complications down the road. Nor do I know anyone I can trust to take over child care for me without a lot of questions and hassles coming my way.
As it happens, I'm jawing with some business associ-ates about my newly developing problems. This guy tells me he's got a solution that will make us all a bundle. Seems he knows this shyster who deals in private adoptions. No questions asked. I hand over the kids; he makes the deals and gives me my cut: quite a bundle indeed. And yes, there's plenty to give my connection a sizeable cut without leaving me any the worse. Who knows what kind of homes the kids go to -- what kind of folks are into paying that much for slightly used merchandise? It's not my concern. I am happily, officially out of the baby rental racket. And on, I assume, to bigger and better things. After all, I've got quite a bundle to invest, and all the time in the world to enjoy it.



All well and good
But we are not always
(thank god)
driven by profit.
We have the capacity
to be driven by all kinds of motives
and to act sometimes
for quite foolish reasons
when looked at objectively.

It is not all black and white
neither is it plus or minus
for we are not logic machines
but human beings
creatures of passion:
capable of intense emotions,
unreasoned behavior,
and not always

Patty We Hardly Knew Ya

Patty We Hardly Knew Ya

So they took you from your lover's home -- Steven
who treated you like a child & later wrote memoirs & told them to take anything, but to leave him alone
& they took you.
& they locked you in a closet & used you for a media campaign to feed the hungry.
You had never known hunger or privation.
You were a princess of the ruling class.
But you had known loneliness.
You learned, finally,
away from your university walls, about revolution.
They called you Tania & plastered your picture on front page reports & post office billboards &
the Six O'clock News.
Your father wasn't the only Hearst
who could make the papers.
You became a phenomenon. You became a star.
And the question on everyone's lips was:
"Where is Patty Hearst?"
& some were arrested & some were destroyed & the LA siege was just one of many brutal episodes in a bloody war movie, but you were a star.
& all the "little people" -- the housewives & the students & the laborers of the working class took you as their own & discussed your motives & some applauded you & some said you deserved to be spanked & some said you were just a pawn, but pawn or queen, you were a star -- a media heroine & no one could ignore you as they had
ignored your wealthy and powerful family.
Month after month you led the headlines.
The FBI was embarrassed
by false leads on your whereabouts.
All those trained bloodhounds searching for one
little girl playing revolutionary.
It could have been made in Hollywood,
But never in CUBA or CHINA or Viet-Nam.
You were so bold, standing in your beret & rifle
in front of the SLA trademark
(and we still may wonder on the significance of
Robbing banks in the tradition of Dunaway and Beatty
-- a whirlwind crime spree
to the glory of the "people."
What did you know of the "people?"
Those who cheered for the circus & those who condemned you at their mid-morning coffee breaks.
Yes, now you belonged to them --
no longer the sheltered heiress.
So they found you, the pigs, really quite by accident (the whole investigation being a gaily colored comedy of
& brought you to "justice."
& Justice took its time-honored time drawing out the headlines -- arraignment through appeals & exposes
("New Times features Bill & Emily Harris:
at home with the fugitives")
And when they asked you for your profession on the
official forms you ingenuously proclaimed to be
"an unemployed Urban Guerrilla," which is certainly as valid as an unemployed newspaper heiress.
And Squeaky Fromm tried to shoot the President,
but you were still America's sweetheart --
poor little rich girl gone guerrilla.
But then you were reprogrammed and reneged on your revolutionary ways. You cried for joy on being reunited with your "capitalist pig" parents &
the family dog --
Just like any Long Island JAP or Sacramento
newspaper heiress back from her hippie jaunt.
And they locked you in your "country club jail"
like they send a naughty child to her room --
"just to teach her a lesson."
And still the interviewers came
to continue the media comedy.
What fun you had with your "Pardon Me" teeshirt & your jailhouse romance with your guard.
(And Jerry Ford, who Squeaky tried to shoot, had
pardoned Trickie Dick. And Susan Ford, the First Daughter, married her Secret Service guard.
And it was the era of Post-Watergate when nothing could be too absurd for a world weary public worn out by the Stagflation Wars)
And Waffling Jimmy Earl of the Georgia Peanut Dynasty was in the Whitehouse.
And China was finally invading Viet-Nam
And a fast-talking Orkian
was the rage of prime time.
And discomania mixed liberally with coke and 'ludes had taken over Amerikkka's youthful zeal.
And Werner Erhard replaced Che Guevara in ex-Yippie Jerry Rubin's heart & so the wheel turns.
& five years after the kidnapping,
Patty Hearst finally went home.

Approaching Millennium

Approaching Millennium

She sits in an old rocking chair
And questions the silence of night.
As the waves blow, the winds flow,
the sands sift with sea
And faraway stars shine in soft mystery
Her eyes shine with starlight and stare at the sea
Asking questions as ancient as night
Expecting no sign to appear.

In the village, at noon, on the square
Beneath the near blinding day light,
Sits a man with a plan he's no means to play
Wondering how he will get through his day
And just where, this night, he will finally lay
(Yes, beneath which exit light?)
Expecting no sign to appear?

I questioned myself on a dare
Tell me: What's wrong and what's right?
Have I caught a new thought that God has no mind?
We search for salvation that's nowhere to find?
or merely grown tired of life's daily grind,
Not caring to search for the light,
Expecting no sign to appear.

We children of flowers and light
Have we turned to dour-faced fear
Our dreams sacrificed to the night
Expecting no sign to appear?

Life, the Universe and Everything

Life, the Universe and Everything
(for Patty)

Let's talk about life
the one you have and the one you imagined . . .
With all the world of possibilities,
what have you settled for?
Waking up in the cool, cool morning
Autumn crisp -- as your lungs reach for air
The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures
Anticipation . . .
Or merely another day?
Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening?
Do you count the countless stars,
knowing a miracle is on its way?
Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination?
What anchors you to Earth?
What makes you want to stay?
A journey of a thousand destinies
Written deep within your soul
Traveling daily through all the possibilities
Which are the parts that make you whole?

Ballad of a Modern Hero

Ballad of a Modern Hero

Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Grew in the wilds of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Learned soon to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned soon to pummel and flatten
Whoever was not of his own.
He grew swift and strong
A fine looking man, and a tough one
With women was always a rough one
But knew how to use all to please him
Sure of his own right and wrong.
He went off to war
Glad to be raising his station
Proud to be serving his nation
He'd ne'er let the enemy seize him
Of this he was sure.
He shot proud and true
And sent letters home to his mother
Of how he had killed yet another
Taught those damn Commies a lesson
Gave 'em what they were due.
He died in the night
And when, in the morning, they found him
It was nothing new to astound them
Someone just said, "What a mess."
And soon he was out of their sight.
Young Julius Jones
Born in the month of his naming
Trained in the fine art of gaming
Gone from the isle of Manhattan
Among the sticks and stones.
Young Julius Jones
Had learned well to hate with a passion
Whoever was most then in fashion
Learned well his lesson and that
In the end justified his bones.

To the Military/Industrial Complex

To the Military/Industrial Complex

You lost your faith, Peter Pan.
You lost your wonder
Who told you to sell out to your father's dream
-- Amerikkka?
Where loyalty to the God Success
overrules loyalty to the tribe?
We never believed in you,
the admen laugh.
Do you laugh with them?
At the poor deluded dreamer.
Do you cry inside in anguish over
what you've lost?
Is any part of that dreamer still alive?
I cry for you.
I was a child
who wanted to fly.



What is power?
Power is a word.
Power is an idea.
The Word is power.
The Idea is power.
Power is a distribution of energy, wealth, strength:
Physical, material, mental, metaphysical,
Power is that which allows us,
Or we allow others, to have
sway over their/our actions, emotions, limitations.
Power is a rush of air, of water, of electrons,
of words,
of weapons, of will
-- the force behind movement
or stasis.

Venus Guide Us to Peace

Venus Guide Us to Peace
a meditative poem

Not just sweetness and light
There is a strength; there is conviction --
there is a vibrant dedication to true worth.
If we can but believe again
in all the humane virtues --
Love is sharing,
in kindness, understanding, supportive regard.
Love is forgiving and being forgiven,
when it is clear that malice was not intended
or malice has been exorcised
-- an acceptance of the positive power
of change, of growth in spirit.
Love is the assumption of "we."
We are doing being going having creating
We are able to exchange our labor, knowledge,
possessions, positions
We are able to take in more than I -- to synergize
our fortunes into wealth and integral well being.
Love is not just a song -- a pretty set of symbols
Love is a power and a glory
and an all encompassing truth.
Love is addition and multiplication,
not division or subtraction.
Love enriches and inspires us.
Love is not blind, not foolish.
Love is not denying the self or self interest.
Love is seeing clearly, knowing wisely,
understanding and expanding the self --
expanding outward to take in the universe
of interconnected, interdependent being.
Love sees the ugliness; and loves sees the beauty.
The ugliness saddens; the beauty invigorates.
Love is to peace as music is to harmony.
But how are we to love in a discordant world?
It is within us to pick out the true,
enduring melody
to which our essential selves are tuned --
If we but look to, listen to, open our selves to
Venus, the Goddess of Love,
Peace, Justice, Harmony
as she manifests within us all.



Look at her there --
She can't see you.
She's lost in a daydream
and miles away.
Can you behold her beauty and love her,
though she knows not that you may be?
Can you behold her beauty and love her;
then turn
and forever leave?



It was a brisk, bright-mooned evening in mid-Fall -- the sidewalks and trees decorated in crackly orange leaves, which blew helter-skelter in the excitement of the wind.
Marie, pretty little Marie, danced along the sidewalk, pranced across the streets, dressed in deep velvet and sparkling finery on her way to a night of music and joy. Perhaps he would be there -- the he of the moment in her heart -- a still unconsummated romance, which, of course, added to the excitement in her eyes, the dancing of her feet. She was sweet twenty-two with long brown hair and big blue eyes and out on her own for under a year now, learning about life outside of school. By day a temporary secretary in various city offices, waiting for the big break to appear which would launch her career; by night an energetic blithe spirit of the local cultural scene, looking for Mr. Right who would make her feel warm and cozy and loved.
Warm . . . and cosy . . . and loved . . .
John H. O'Connor -- Johnny O' -- less than dapper man about town, scheming and scamming and looking for his lucky break, also had gentler feelings. Just because he'd been knocked about a bit, he wasn't bitter, just wise to the ins and outs; and he wasn't one of the ins. So he looked for the wide chance, the long-shot with the heavy purse, and meanwhile dreamed big-time, often with chemical aid; and looked for that special someone who would believe in him the way he wanted to believe in himself.
And they thought they'd found each other that bright, crackling Fall.
She was shy but forward. He was brash but shy. So they engaged in bantering small talk, while burning into each other's eyes -- everytime they encountered each other at the bars and parties and concert halls, for something over a month now. And tonight once more. But tonight was special. Tonight was magical. Crackling energy erupted and there was so much more between them -- like telepathy. They kissed. And walked each other home, hand in hand. And ended up in her apartment,
where her roommates were conveniently out. They told each other their souls and enjoyed bodily bliss and felt very, very special and blessed. And Marie, sweet little Marie, knew deep down for the very first time that somebody loved her all the way through, without reservation, without condensation, and with only one condition -- that she love him too.
So let us leave these new lovers to do as lovers do and visit them later down the road of life. Not too much later, for things move fast in these days of high-technology and mass mediated culture. Let's look in on them, say nine months hence, in the long, hot summer of their lives. And they're sharing a small apartment on the wrong side of town. (What makes it wrong -- well the glaring glass and excrement on the sidewalk, as well as the occasional passed-out drunk or junkie might hint at a less than luxurious lifestyle for the local hoi-polloi.)
Well, how could she believe in him, fastidious little Marie, who may have been emotionally starved, but at least was always fed and clothed among the middle-class. And he loved her, yes he loved her almost feverishly, but he couldn't control her; couldn't own her; and the fear of losing her was more than he could bear.
What had started out as a glorious adventure had turned too starkly real.
And the real world, in fact, has become much too stark and drear. What do we see on the tv and newstands but nuclear this and bacterial that and crazy folk erupting into murder on the streets and schoolyards and AIDS-infected rapists and child pornography rings and arson and bombings, and man's most brutal retaliation unto man, woman and child. A long, hot, greenhouse-effectuated summer indeed.
So he hit her, once or twice, or maybe, yeah, he went, a bit, out of control. He beat her, pummeled her, showed her just who was boss-man, upper-hand, in control of the situation, able to rule her life. And did she leave?
Hell, no. Where could she go? There is no safe port home, you know. Not when Mom and Dad have split long since and communicate mostly by holiday phone calls and birthday greeting cards with a twenty-five dollar check enclosed because they've both known better days.
And friends, what friends? He's alienated all those who are less worse off than they and she, so blindly attentive in the early days of bliss, had barely noticed. That brilliant career has yet to materialize. We must admit she'd not really been pursuing it lately. And he's pissed away her weekly paychecks on deals made of daydreams and the occasional rent, utilities and food. But, hey, this is the latter part of the twentieth century. Aren't there "Women's Groups" and socially conscious organizations to come to the rescue? Well, maybe somewhere; but not here where it counts so far as she can see. She's alone. Except when he loves her in the warm, soft night, singing poetry with his eyes and hands and mouth -- giving and taking and being all she could imagine. Oh, for those warm, soft nights . . .. But she's got to go. She must escape. The total desperation of the situation has come upon her. Nowhere to go . . . nowhere . . . nowhere . . .. But go she must!
So she waits 'til he's out on the town, scheming and scamming and giving his all just to try to make it for her, to be somebody in her eyes. And she just starts running, in no particular direction, no thought in her mind but escape. She runs, then walks, then runs again, through the town, through the city streets, with no certain destination, desperate little Marie, living on the hope that something will occur to her as she runs. And, running out of breath, she stops at a newsstand where the headlines scream of horrors far beyond what she has ever endured. But she's out of breath and out of options. She's got about $5.00 in her pocket, so she goes into the nearest bar to use the facilities and buy a pack of cigarettes. And take some time to think.
Pretty little Marie, they come up to her and offer to buy her a drink. What the hell. She drinks. It makes her feel less. Notice less. And some sleezeball carries her away, arm around her staggering form. And when she tries to scream, he covers her mouth and nose and face with the pillow. So she screams and screams inside her mind. And in the bright, hot morning, they find her, what's left of her, in a scuzzy alley. The headlines talk of her tomorrow, but it's too late for her to care.

Little Love Poems

Little Love Poems
Passion Plays
Sidewalk street scenes
Commercialized love-ins at the five and dime.
It's getting so you can't speak of intimate feelings
Without sounding like a third rate flick
Or pocket novel.
So we go cold in protest
And that is the evil
Of obscenity.

I fell in love once
Now they just take on different
Faces and Forms,
These objects of my passions.
It's all the same fucking merry-go-round
Of rapid pulse beats
And hot and cold flashes
And none of it seems very real or sane
Or even, at this well-worn point,

You said you loved me,
And it made my world.
I called you my lover,
And felt secure in the race to conquest.
Yet lately, when I'm alone
I feel an urge to leaving;
And when I'm with you,
I'm not there at all.

Love is a word people use a lot.
I love you.
Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not five minutes,
But right now
You touch me
Through a look, a phrase, an expression,
The way you stand so firmly on your ground,
And I respond
With the hot flush of love
In a smile.

Gemini Eyes - Phase I

Gemini Eyes - Phase I

You hurtled me into a faithless dream
All my demons I'd thought I'd quietened
Sent my thoughts down a lustful stream of music
Gemini eyes talk of treacherous love
and I'll never win
Gemini eyes false promise of love,
and I'm caught again
How can I hold you?

The time was weak, my body hurting
It's a time I'm sure the years will soften
You offered all I wanted to need and I wanted
Your Gemini eyes to talk to me of love,
and I'll never win
Gemini eyes, please answer mine with love
Oh, I'm caught again
and I just want to hold you
and let the passion melt my tears
Tear the demons of all my fears
Tear me to destruction, Gemini eyes,
cause I'll never win
Your Gemini eyes got me caught again.
Please let me hold you.

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.

Here at the bar again, bar nothing to me.
Early Scorpio warm, warm village 2 pm poetry reading
at Chumley's
Searching for bargains, found a Paul Goodman book
with cat and dog and baby photographs
to give to Cindy
a gift of love for a fragile child
Still afright from last night's heavy scene
Wherein the police took my man away again,
This time with my blessing and accomplicement.
. . . A man is a hard thing.
Also a drag on my developmental aspirations
When all he does is cry and threaten
Big Brute Violence
To storm my sensibilities.
(What's frustrating is he doesn't hear me cry.)
Laughing in the park we loved
Crying in the night we parted
Oh, beseech I, god above
Why must you leave me broken-hearted
(and I know he'll be returning with more disregards
and diatribes and possibly pistols drawn to fire.)
So I sit here in the bar, again
Drinking sweet Kahlua and awaiting the poetry
Taking a respite, you see.
Oh, god, for this while,
Bar nothing to this troubled child
(for child I feel, though woman grown)
Let peace alone assail me.



She's cool, just the right amount of calculating, and oh so deferential to the code. He's crude, patronizing, but affable; you can't help liking him. They live on a quiet, tree-lined street just behind the main thoroughfare. You'd hardly know them if you saw them every day.
She was wild and wind born, a creature of seasons. She blew into their lives and opened their windows and doors. Did you see her flying through town, smile wide eyes flashing in the distance? She's a creature of seasons, comes and goes through changes, rides high and low on the wind. They would have smothered her in confinement just because they are that way. She would love to be brilliant, but her flame is too blown about, so she lives in a fantasy of exquisite pain. "You will love her; she knows how to suffer," cries into your ear over telephone wires, into your eyes from the printed page.
"My God," the priest intones, "Look over my congregation. Each of us a sinner on the path, answer our prayers for forgiveness. Absolve us, we know what we have done, and would assuage the guilt upon our souls."
They go to bed each evening, shortly after ten. What can they be dreaming?
She takes off, racing through town on a stolen motorcycle, out to meet her lover. They always meet outside of town and travel into the city. They always giggle when they meet, out for a night of fun and laughter. Laughter always becomes erotic after awhile. It's a night of racing madly against death, of Experience. It's a night that lasts for days, until exhaustion makes it end. They are well known in this city that they go to, though strangers in their own homes.
The jukebox music blares and voices shout over. Psychedelic lighting and elaborate costumes make everyone a figure of fantasy. It's a high time for pill poppers, powder sniffers, and mainliners: a high time for all. I see you and wave across the room, "Hey, man, come on over!" General roughhousing, laughter, some surreptitious snorts from a vial. ~"Hey, man, what's happening? Gi'me five!"
She sees you and sidles over. She's on the make all the way. She loves a challenge, can't turn away from one. She speaks her mind, brash. She would love to be brilliant, but her flame is too blown about. You give her your attention, as much as you have available on your high. She smiles, eyes wide and flashing, begs you for a kiss with those eyes, reaches for your hand to read your palm lines, says they show great physical prowess. You are enchanted and thrilled in your response. I stand by and watch you, delighted.
They are dreaming words, kind and harsh, and numbers. They are dreaming situations with predetermined conclusions. In the morning, like well-oiled machines, they will roll along to work. If you look, you may see them on the highways, behind the wheels and shields of their cars. You wouldn't know them if you did.
She licks the inside of your earlobe, her hands tightening on your chest. You are hardly aware of the world without her. I am still watching you, from the corner, highly amused. The music blares, an everpresent background, foreground, background, foreground. It's all so intense, you smile, the agony; the pleasure. I am waiting for a sign.
They murmur uneasily in their sleep. There are signs and portents, to be felt around them, in the cool night air. They stir uneasily, but do not waken, hiding more deeply in their dreams. They would not know how to deal with it all awake.
We have left the bar, walking in the late night rain to your apartment. It's not a long walk, nor a short one. The rain doesn't permeate our highs. We laugh a lot over nothing and smoke cigarettes. You're cool, supremely aware and together. We giggle our secret jokings in the rain; your arms unite us, one around each. Finally we reach the building, doorway, stairs, stairs, stairs, room. Double lock, and you're ours. We will play lovingly with you, a new toy. We love to share our toys, she and I.
"Dear Lord," the priest closes his sermon, "We have sinned and demand forgiveness. We have played by the rules and will enter the kingdom of heaven when we die."
You give yourself over completely to the pleasure which we know well how to give. We blow great wafting billows of smoke from our lungs into yours. We breathe heavenly white crystals into our veins and yours. We all three enter each others' bodies through every orifice, merge through skin and immortal souls, experience climax upon climax, ever greater the heights.
They dream of liquid floating in suspension and do not understand. We are the product of their dreams.
We suck you of your life fluids, moving mouths on every part of your body. Vampires of experience, we will not let you go till we have sucked you dry. Like a vampire's victim, you will crave the life, the experience of others, will suck them dry to gain eternity. We suck you and lick you clean, fondlingly. We again enter you through every opening, cleaning you through. You have been exhausted. We complete our ritual cleansing as you lie immobile, beyond response. We symbolically cut off your genitals, cut out your heart. We now own your soul. It has been a good night.
Dawn has long since risen; they will wake soon. Soon they begin again, another day of their busy aimless lives: rise, work, unwind, sleep, and, oh yes, consume those predigested market-attractive packaged products of the mass media, the mass brainwash, the mass society.
We leave you sleeping and run gaily, arms linked, along the city sidewalk. We stop for coffee at a corner cafe and rolls and donuts. We no longer giggle, but speak sensibly; it is daylight. We go to the park to sleep by the water, surrounded by greenery, curled contentedly in each other's arms. Our easy breath is the summer breezes.

She should be carved in wood
The fine grain lines of her hair,
her form
coppery contours
exquisitely rendered
She should be as an inspiration to art,
a fine thing valued
sitting so austere
and gracefully

Emily is a garden
She grows fine long tendrils
sparkling in the sunshine
and dainty pearly flowers
for bees to hum over
and the long daylight and beaming stars
share the fun of a summer day.
Emily grows well underground
in the long, cold winter
and brightens eyes once more
in early spring.

Brian, quick as a flash!
He's a cat man
slinking in to saucy societe
with that big flashy grin (ain't it a sin, man ...).
Life is smiling at him in the morning
And sometimes in the evening he's still flashing
into your life and mine.
(I call that a fine thing, man ...)
Yeah, keeps me ringing
Like the telephone...

Love Song to a Lost Generation

Love Song to a Lost Generation

In 1967 when the world was young and new
we died a'borning.
Our drug-swept minds we left to weep
a burial parade to the new morning
That dreamed us in our dreams, but never wakened.
Oh yes, there was a time when time was young and
open, free to wander.
Oh yes, there was a time when time was young
and ready there to squander.
Oh yes, there was a time when nothing seemed
beyond a new direction.
Oh yes, there was a time, but time has died
and none are resurrected.
It's a sad song I'm singing
of dreams that might have been fulfilled
if only . . .
A sad song,
like leaves blown from a tree
to find that they are lonely,
but winter's coming
& there's no returning down that road
once the snows have rearranged it.
What happened to our plans for peace,
for sharing bount beyond belief
for blazoning the dawn with youthful fire . . .
Can these short years now find us old
withered spider webs of gold
spun so fine that none would think to see us.
Our voice is gone.
Our fire has died.
And all that echoed deep inside our hearts
to march eternal now eludes us.
In spiraling we've lost our thread
We've become the age to dread.
Like this last poem, we soon are dead,
I weep for the child almost born.
She showed a promise now unfulfilled.
Perhaps someday again may she find us.

Neptune in Libra

Neptune in Libra

I catch clouds and hold them for awhile in my mind
they keep me drifting.
I catch minds and let them float behind my eyes
They keep me sifting through thoughts and moods.
I catch you for awhile, drifting through my mind.
I catch your smile, your thoughtstreams, your
ups and downs.
I catch you for awhile and let you linger through
my moments.
I catch clouds and shape them to your form
they keep me drifting.
I dream forms and demons and fleeting glimpses
of your mind.
I dream while clouds drift away into formless
I catch your eye in the corner of my mind
In drifting, shifting dreams that float away,
Yet stay -- yet linger,
Always thinking you.

For Michael

For Michael

You were a mystery to me.
A sensual stranger in the night
Who brought me ecstasy and fantasy.
What we shared wasn't love --
but an adventure -- and the love of adventure
draws you near me in certain dreams.
And you are still a mystery, a symbol in my life
for certain exquisite longings.
The time we were together was a magic time.
I'm looking for that magic again.
I am looking for another magical romance,
as I remember you and smile
without wondering where you are.



Walking long mornings into sunrise
You stood by and took the earth into your arms
like grainstalks
I called you my Degas print.
You spoke of the moon.
21 days and nights we tarried.
Almost single, almost married.
I loved you.
You spoke to me in words of magic.
Will you speak to me again?
Hollywood houses and Paris cafes bowed to us.
You said you needed work and companions.
I cursed you in my mind, and went off
seeking other follies.
The days look longer now, feel somehow strange.
Love is like a looking glass, reflecting change.

a minor interlude

a minor interlude

He came for the music. And the romance.

Summer at the big international jazz festival. He had decided to go,
not because he was secure in his tastes and passions, but to help create
his burgeoning self-definition -- the true function of the summer of our
lives. It was time to escape the endless malls and predigested
televised opinions into the heart of a city that pulsed with life. And
here, where no one knew his name, he was finally free to become what he
could be, wandering unfamiliar streets and imagining himself to be, at
last, truly home.

He was staying at a cheap little student-ghetto hotel, barely more than
a hostel, in a compact room with a cot and bathing facilities down the
hall. There was also a breakfast room, where complimentary coffee and
pastries were provided, along with the chance to meet and greet his
fellow travelers. Many of them were musicians -- not the big names that
drew in the international aficionado crowd, but someday would-bes, young
folks, like himself, trying out their talents on the streetcorners, in
the parks, in the breakfast room of their temporary quarters. Some knew
of local bars where for the price of a pricey beer you could hang for
hours enjoying the late night sets of local talent, more intimate venues
than the big street-stage and theater performances of the daylight and
early evening.

He loved her wide, infectious smile, and the sparkle in her dark,
shining eyes. He had noticed her immediately at the bar, sitting with
her friends, enjoying the music, and at his hotel where she worked as a
desk clerk on the day shift, making the place feel more like a happy
home. She worked there for a small room and a smaller salary and
waitressed at a nearby coffeeshop for meals, tips, and a small hourly
wage -- altogether it worked out for her, and life was mostly fun, with
occasional high drama. So she smiled, widely, infectiously, so that
everyone loved to be around her. Looking at her, he felt so overwhelmed
with joy that he wanted to cry -- like at the end of a truly meaningful
book or movie that touches you so deeply that it seems to speak to you,
to speak only to you. He looked deeply into her eyes, dark and shining,
across the room, where she smiled and swayed to the rhythm of the band,
lost in the music. Saxophone, trumpet, clarinet, keyboards, backed up by
a big, bass fiddle -- sometimes wildly raucous, sometimes slow and
dreamy, as each soloed, duoed, came together in soaring syncopation,
dropping in or out with inspiration or exhaustion, all so achingly
beautiful -- the music, the soft summer night, the girl.

Because he was the kind who stood back and observed life without really
taking part in it, he could see and admire her propensity for jumping in
with both feet, never looking back. He watched mesmerized while she
danced and flirted to the music, making it her own.

Being a true student of life, he carried with him always a small journal
into which he would write quick impressions, ideas as they occurred.
So, now, as he sat hidden in the darkness, allowing his imagination to
sway to the rhythm of the band, he wrote:

"They would have to find a way to come together, he and she. After all,
if there were no meeting, how could the story begin? From where would
the story come, to be told? The 'jazz scene' is not enough. We need
characters to form a plot, the experiences from which those characters
can develop and grow. We need relationships in our lives within which
we can learn to become ourselves. And all this is just deep
philosophical shit for the basic premise that, hey, I am drawn to this
girl, more than just attracted by her adorable appearance. I am
developing an actual need to get to know her, to learn about who she is,
and who I can be in relation to her. So why don't I just do the prosaic
thing and go ask her to dance?"

So he did.

And they danced. And laughed. And kissed on the dance floor, hugging,
and laughing, and dancing -- just like young lovers to be.

"Come back to my room with me." he murmured into her ear, as it
conveniently came into contact with his lips.

"Can't do it. How would the other guests feel, not getting room service
and all."

"Then I'll go back to your room."

"Hey, I'm not that kind of girl. Think of my self-respect. Besides,
what would our kids say when we told them."

"So far as I know, we don't have any. And what about my self-respect,
being shot down when I've finally gotten up the nerve to ask you."

"Tell you what, then, tomorrow happens to be my day off. I'll let you
escort me to the Festival -- a date like."

"Sounds like fun. I'll meet you in the breakfast room around 11:30 and
treat you to your second cup of coffee wherever you suggest."

"It's a deal! By the way, I'm Celeste."

"A pleasure to meet you, Celeste. You can call me Paul."

And so they went, twirling/embracing in a romantic daze to the
ever-changing, expanding band of after hours musicians, until at last
they walked each other home, separating at the stairs, parting with a
kiss "to seal the deal." -- a very passionate deal, indeed.

The day dawned bright and warm, but by 11:30 had deteriorated into
overcast and sweltering. She took him to a corner cafe for iced
cappucinos to go, to keep them more comfortable on their walk to the
Festival grounds -- several blocks of temporary music-mall on streets
closed to traffic for the occasion, dotted along the way with stages and
concession booths centered by a large, flowing fountain which was
surrounded by chairs and umbrella'd tables, surrounding several
temporary out-door cafes and bars. The music was everywhere, from lone
guitarists plugged in to mini-amps along the fountain to big, shiny
bands taking their turns on the stages -- so that as you moved far
enough for one to fade you came into the aural purview of another.

The crowds of revelers made a colorful array -- many of them dancing to
the music, individually, in couples, and in groups. Children squirting
each other with their water bottles darted in and out amongst the
longer-legged. The concessionaires were in their glory selling cold
drinks, snow cones, commemorative clothing and cds. Despite the heat,
everyone was taking full advantage of the party atmosphere, joining in
the general soundscape with their own gleeful screaming and applause.

It seemed like the perfect time to be in love. Celeste and Paul found
themselves falling into that marvelous, magical natural high, and
gladly, giddily, let it carry them bubbling above the crowd into the
pure realm of jazz vibrations and each other's eyes.

It was the one perfect moment in my life. In the dark winters of my
discontent, I am always trying to go back to it -- my own transcendent
summer of love.

Thunder and scattered raindrops had them dashing from the festival
grounds and, as the downpour hit, ducking into a neighborhood bar to
stay dry. They ordered beers and punched up some dreamy tunes on the
jukebox. Then sat for hours talking about everything. It all seemed so
important -- giving each other the gifts of all their hopes, dreams,

They wanted to say there forever, to Vulcan mind-meld, to touch and
never let go.

As it got later into evening, the bar started filling up. A band set up
and a chanteuse came out to sing hauntingly beautiful songs of love.

Eventually they walked each other home, but did not separate at the
stairs. There was still so much they needed to express. So much that
they didn't sleep at all and never separated until Celeste had to leave
for work, leaving Paul to think deep thoughts while luxuriating in the
magical spell that seemed to surround him.

At that age he should have been free, open to limitless possibilities.
For a time he was able to fool himself, to believe that life should be
that way. He hadn't intended to fall in love, only to flirt with
romance, the romance of anonymity, of, for a short time inbetween, the
chance to reinvent himself any way he might choose.

But now, here was this cosmic gift, this beautiful woman -- not only
beautiful but intelligent, funny, incredibly fun to be with, a
powerhouse of energy with a smile that could transport him directly to
paradise -- this woman whom he could not help but to love in ways he had
never believed possible; and she loved him, mind, body, soul, exactly as
he was, here and now. He had not even realized how lonely he had always
been until now that suddenly that burden had been lifted. He felt like
he could fly on wings of song, and never, ever need the touch of land --
only the touch of Celeste to keep him flying eternally.

Once she set her mind to something it never took long to have it done.
In a few days time, she had quit her hotel clerking position, and gotten
a full-time waitress job at a place where the tips were good. Through
her vast social network, she found him various odd jobs, under the
table, and a small furnished apartment, just right for young lovers.
She was even able to find a local arts rag that would pay him for his
stories, albeit not much. It helped them afford the beers and munchies
at their favorite neighborhood bar where they could share intense
conversation with her friends, who in deference to her were now becoming
his as well, and dance intimately late into the night to the local
bands. An idyllic life to settle into, filled with love and fun and,
for Paul, a great adventure.

For several weeks he just went along for the wild ride, thanking his
good fortune, learning about the ways of love on hot, sultry nights.

Perhaps he was at heart a coward. He hadn't been raised to the wild,
but carefully taught to honor responsibilities. He knew he had a future
to go back to, one that revolved around college classes, a part-time
job, studying and making contacts, occasional dating of course, but not
these new found friends, his new found life and love. His parents had
sacrificed to give him a better chance, a high-priced, prestigious
education. He was expected to take this seriously, make the very most
of it, make them proud. Perhaps he just did not have whatever it is
that it takes to stand in defiance of all that one has been taught to
honor. When the time came, it wasn't even a decision -- he just did
what he had been programmed to do, with wrenched heart and staunchly
blankened mind.

They said they'd keep in touch. And from time to time they did.

She runs a successful bed and breakfast in a tranquil resort town, along
with her ever-cheerful husband and their two cuddly kids. The place is
somewhat famous for its largely musical clientele.

He is a reporter for a metropolitan newspaper, covering the local jazz
beat, without an alter-ego as a caped crusader.

The music keeps me sane.



Memories, they weave a silken web in silence
We talk of times past in gently measured tones,
sometimes bitter humor.
We watch a bird circling in the distance,
and build patterns in the clouds.
Last year I spied a mole burrowing in
the unmelted snow of early spring.
Today I tend to think of you
smiling as you did last night
when you first saw me after parting.

Falling in love has a lot to do with the MEETING

Falling in love has a lot to do with the MEETING

Falling in love has a lot to do with the MEETING
That special configuration of time and space
and receptive psyches.
It only happens when you least expect it
And are most ready.
Getting ready consists of getting
Totally involved in your own thing.
Digging on yourself,
Being in tune with the universe
And being very horny -- if you can dig it.
Least expecting consists of
Being perfectly happy and
At one with the moment --
Neither expecting nor fearing anything.
At this point, you are ready for the
And it will flow along so smoothly
and just rightly
That you won't even notice til much later
Just how magical it was.
There is still plenty of good old-fashioned magic
about, if you can hitch onto it.
Magic is what love is all about
-- that cement that binds
Freely floating atoms or organisms
Against all logic.
consists of you
And another
And everything around and about you
From the beginning of time until now
Which has been gathering forces
To bring you and that other together.
And you know each other without explanation.
And there is that special THERENESS
And you both have everything to say
And explore at once.
And it's so exciting
And you're on a cloud
Miles above the Earth
And Everything is somehow beautiful.
What happens next is up to you.

Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice

The darkness descends.
As we cry out for warmth and light
Our voices turn to spirit-imbued song
Our frantic movements against the cold
turn to ecstatic dancing.
We take comfort from each other's warmth
and celebrate the life within
struggling to survive.
'Tis the season to relearn the magic
As we share our heavy burdens
of fear and despair.
Joining hands, dancing 'round the fire,
we raise our sight to the sky
and each day,
the days get lighter.

Ah, November, time of Wonder

Ah, November, time of Wonder

Ah, November, time of wonder
How now shall you cast my dreams asunder?
And weave your captive hypnotic spell
That I have learned to love so well?
You'll tear my defenses, unbalance my soul
And leave me feeling purely whole.
Dear November, so like love and lust
Drug maddened dove,
I've loved you dearly in my past.
Why does not your magic last?
I feel so weary in my mind
I tend to hide behind a blind
And live in dreaming wondrous free
While building barricades all through me.
If this be trap, then where's the spring
of Autumn that migrations bring?
When thoughts of leaving soak the brain
And all proclaim themselves insane
And revel in the loss of rules
'Til fearing that we've become fools
We hide again 'neath winter's frost
And count the moments that we've lost.

Diamonds and Rust

Diamonds and Rust

"Diamonds and Rust" like Joanie says
memories, I mean
I saw you tonight with your San Francisco cut
and that old double-edged blade
went piercing through my heart
leaving me bleeding
long through this autumn night
of no-sleep blues and golds
and rusty burnished reds
that cut like diamonds.

I call to you in fevered dreams
that leave me gasping,
haunting all through the dreary day.
Can't escape that sudden urgency.
Just like days gone by. You don't answer.
You don't hear me through all that mass
-- your own driving imperative.
We meet so seldom
separation so long.
We are like strangers.
Yet times we have touched, one to one,
to perfection,
have been one strength and impulse
have known such intimacy . . .
I call to you now,
Hearing your voice in every song of romance.

A Vignette

A Vignette

It was a simple house in a simple town.
The road was long and winding.
Two men sat on the road.
They were playing cards.
One man had a bottle which was occasionally passed.
They were not playing for any stakes,
But as an excuse for companionship.
It was a simple house in a simple town.
Old gnarled, stately tall trees formed a woods
that lined the roadway.
It was noon, but the day was overcast;
not dark, but pleasantly muted.
It was autumn.
The trees were proud of their majestic leaves
of gold and magenta which covered their branches
and sprinkled the earth.
Small furry creatures occasionally could be seen
amidst the trees, leaves and earth.
The two men were aware of all this in the
backgrounds of their minds.
They were also aware of the pleasantness
of their peaceful companionship
as they played cards, passed the bottle
and made casual conversation about this and that.
It was a simple house in a simple town
by the side of a long and windy road
which was surrounded by woods.
A plane passed overhead
and was briefly a part of this scene,
before moving on to more important places.